


Lions

by agreylady



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agreylady/pseuds/agreylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheva has seen lions before. [de-anon]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lions

She knows she shouldn't be doing this. 

He's about as docile as any captured beast, but when he asks her to bring his tray a little closer, she complies. Maybe she only wants to prove a point – that she isn't scared of him. The BSAA isn't threatened. 

They should be, and she is. 

It surprises her when he doesn't jump her, but she can feel his eyes boring into her. The tray clinks on the ground. “There you are.” She turns back to him and crosses her arms. The weight of her gun at her hip is a small comfort. 

The holding cells don't have great lighting. They're underground, with little slits near the ceiling, so small that Sheva doesn't fear escape even from him. It's only for a night, anyway. One night before the headquarters sends out men to bring him to a more secure prison. 

He's securely fastened as it is, arms bound behind with a sort of straitjacket and feet chained to the floor with some kind of ungodly-strong alloy. But his eyes – they do not look captive at all. They catch the strange light of the cell and, rather than reflect it, absorb it. They shine yellow from within. Sheva has never seen anything so unsettling. 

_He doesn't have his drug anymore_ , she reassures herself. _His strength is eking away._

She leaves him.

\--

When Sheva was young, she saw a lion. 

She was hungry. The lion looked hungry, too. 

_Do not get close_ , her uncle had yelled at her. Yelling had been essential. There were ten mouths to feed, ten including Sheva's, and when all those mouths began to talk, the house could be a loud place.

Sheva did not have to listen to her uncle or his wife or their hateful children anymore. 

But she was still scared. 

The lion was a male. His mane spilled over his neck. Sheva knew that usually it was lionesses who hunted. _Where have all your warrior-women gone?_ she asked, but only in her head. _Why are you alone?_

The lion seemed to hear her, because it raised its head toward her. Its face did not change. Its eyes were as bright and hot as boiling gold. 

Albert Wesker's eyes remind her of that lion's. 

\--

The BSAA is held up in talks. What's left of TriCell is trying to protest, deny, interfere. It makes Sheva's blood go hot. 

In the meantime, she brings him his dinner a second time. 

She realizes, when she sets it down again in silence, that, previously, he hardly seemed to notice her. He seemed to have no use for her before. This looking is new.

“Sheva Alomar,” he says. 

Her head snaps up. 

“You know me.”

“Of course. Chris's partner.” His mouth curls up at the edges. “After all we've been through.”

“We've been through nothing,” she says, but she feels that this is not entirely true. She moves toward the door anyway. 

“And when do you plan to transport me?”

Sheva stiffens. “That is not for you to know.”

He laughs. His laugh is a rip in cloth. Unlike most laughs, it does not invite others to join. “Chris must surely want to gloat,” he says. He says Chris's name often. It always holds a special, murky meaning. 

Sheva's arm tightens around one of the cell bars. She wants to leave. “Chris wants to move on.” She thinks of what he did to that woman – Jill Valentine – and her skin crawls. 

“So young,” he says. “I hope that naivete does not fail you, Sheva.”

“I did not give you permission to use my name.”

He does not care. He leans back. “Don't tell me you've been able to move on.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

She does. 

_Her parents._

“I do not.”

He leans in. Somehow, he manages to look graceful in all his chains. He's not wearing a shirt. Just pants, easier this way. He has a strong body, leaner than Chris's. Older, weathered. But strong. 

A lion's body, crouching for the kill. 

“Whatever made you join the BSAA. Alomar. I remember that name.”

“There is no possibility-”

“Factory workers,” he says. “Good wages for an African couple. If I recall, our African factories paid equally for men, women, children-”

“The wages of death,” Sheva says, and if a voice could cut through bone it would be hers. 

“Death does not discriminate,” he says, and he looks at her with yellow eyes.

She moves a little closer, just to see his eyes. They have slit pupils. Like a viper's. A snake's, she tells herself, a snake's. 

A lion's.

It would be highly unprofessional to slap him in the face, but it's what she wants to do and she does it. 

His face feels soft, more human than not, but she can still see an angry flash of bright teeth. His skin looks pink where she hit him. 

“I think that stings,” he says airily.

She does it again. 

He laughs. She supposes that everything is funny to a madman. “Jill tried that as well,” he says. “But she actually used her fist. I remember teaching her that. A good right hook.”

Sheva is disgusted. She thinks of Josh, and she thinks how she would feel if it were Josh before her, chained and degraded and spouting violent madness. Or Chris. _Chris._

There is something strange about Wesker, though. He does not seem to mind his chains in the least. 

She is afraid again. 

“Chris must find you disgusting,” she says. 

“As you say.”

And this time, she does as he must have taught Jill. She puts her weight into it, and she throws him to the ground. 

–-

She knows she shouldn't be doing this.

He's an eager participant. Perhaps he realizes his death is imminent, after all. 

His mouth is like rock. He kisses her again and again, writhing up to meet her, and she holds him down. No drugs now, and she is the one with hands. She grips his hair like a vice. Golden hair, a mane. 

She traces his muscles and with her eyes closed they are nearly right. 

The person who she wants to trace is not hers to name, but she can trace his ghost whenever she likes. 

_He's gone_ , she should've told Wesker, _He's gone_. She hadn't lied when she said he'd moved on. 

She unzips his fly and tugs his pants down. He emits something like a grunt of approval.

With her better judgment failing her, she undoes his hands. His feet, she justifies, are still chained. She knows how to defend herself. And she wants to be touched. Strong, warm hands. Wesker's hands are strong, but not warm. She will have to make do. 

His hands are all over her, trying to claim her, trying to make ashamed of her own body. She won't be fooled. She pretends they are someone else's. 

He pins her down to the floor and takes her from behind. Hard and rough and painful until she finds pleasure in it. His hands find her breasts, but only to handle them roughly until she cries out, until he sets them around her firm, slender waist, grunting for something he cannot name. 

She closes her eyes. 

His pace is nothing like she imagines Chris's might be. 

_Sheva_ , she thinks, remembering, the way he says her name, just Sheva – her body tenses, on the brink of pleasure; she can feel him going harder and faster, faster and harder and faster. His hands slip on her sweat, but dig in at the fingertips. He will hold her if he has to claw her to do it. The floor of the cell is cold. His cock, at least, is hot. 

She screams another man's name, and feels herself clench. 

She hears a name on his lips, a hiss of pleasure, an echo of her own scream. 

She doesn't question it. 

She dresses quickly after that, wiping his cum off the back of her thighs. She's afraid someone heard her call and thinks she needs help. 

She looks at Wesker – his eyes half-closed, like a lion's – and thinks that she probably does. 

He chuckles low in his throat. He lies against the wall and looks up at the ceiling, spreading his arms.

He looks triumphant at having been freed of his cuffs - she's too frightened to get close to him, now. They both know it is a small triumph. There is no hope to recoup all that he has lost. How low he's sunken, a lion with no pride. 

She tells him so, in Swahili. He must understand her, but he acts as though she hasn't spoken at all. She zips her boots and stands, refusing to look at him again. 

\--

When she receives news of Albert Wesker's death, the only thing she feels is pity. Sheva remembers something her uncle yelled at her, something she never thought to remember: pity is the natural due of the pathetic.

Even still, something haunts her. 

She can see his eyes.


End file.
